We took the morning train. Racing out, hastening the pace – then crush and rush to the next train. Packed like sardines for the seaside. Three stops, two – a child shouts uncontrollably. No one looks. Averting our eyes to diagnose, criticise, curse and pity.
Arrival! Relieved of the stifling human hub-bub and the ache of anticipation. Doors slide open on an outpouring of human tide. The sea, the sun, the sky writ high and pretty on a old town, lit by artists.
Uphill we trekked; narrow are the ways of pilgrimage to the Hepworth studio. Aprons on a hook, tools that teased and tore at wood and metal, neat piles of virgin stone as petrified forest. The garden is scattered with fabulous sculptures, plants of an architectural standing and some spots of deliberate colour in the roses. That lightness of being she broke through to in aperture art, encapsulated now as museum.
Tate St Ives: Barbara Hepworth museum & sculpture garden
Prosography for The RagTag community invite to an Excursion
4 thoughts on “To the Magic Stones”
‘Aprons on a hook, tools that teased and tore at wood and metal,’ nice detail, a sense of creativity ongoing even though Hepworth is no longer with us.
all the things she left behind feel as though she has just popped out to the shops
Ah, your words are fabulous! A place that captures my heart every visit.
I must go back!
thank you Jude – am starting to venture into prose writing a bit now besides the poetry though the boundaries are blurred.
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